The Incinerator
by Turrislucidus
Summary: If the incinerator had been on that Tuesday in February, what would Veruca's bad-nut experience have been like? Requested by 'guest', this one-shot takes a dive down the chute to find out. I do not own Charlie and the Chocolate Factory in any of its iterations, and there is no copyright infringement intended in this solely for entertainment imagining. Enjoy!


"Ahhhhhhh!"

My screams fill my own ears, and in this dim, metal tunnel, I have to squelch them to save my hearing. It was too late to save my balance, but my losing my balance wasn't MY fault in the first place! It was the fault of those awful, nasty, mangy squirrels, knocking me over, and how I ever thought I wanted one, I'll never know!

"Ahhhhhhh!"

It's hard not to scream; screaming is so satisfying in this situation—in almost every situation, really—but it's not helping me. It's so much darker now, and I'm moving so much faster now; this tunnel is the worst! I'm sliding back and forth, hitting the sides—I'm sure this is causing bruises—not to mention doing terrible things to my mink! Mr. Wonka is gonna be in big, big trouble when my Daddy gets ahold of him after this is over! Fur sure I'll need a new mink—maybe two or three—and it better be better than this one is, or the replacement isn't going to make me happy at all!

"Ahhhhhhh!"

I've gotta stop screaming, or I won't have any hearing left … What's this? I'm slowing down? It's not getting any lighter … Oh, wait! It _is_. It _is_ getting brighter! I _am_ slowing down! The tunnel is flattening out; there's a fork ahead, with neon signs! Figures with Wonka: neon; how tacky. There's one over each tunnel, and I can read the letters from here. Hmm, on the left side it says:

REPENT, VERUCA!

On the right side it says:

NO WAY, WONKA!

"Ahhhhhhh!"

I'm going faster again, but I think I'm supposed to pick one. That's easy! I'll show that twerp! I point my toes and push off the same side wall with my forearm. I'm picking NO WAY, WONKA!, and my steering is working! Repent. What does he mean? That hat-head thinks this is _MY_ fault? Doesn't he know who I _am_? I'm Veruca Salt! _He's_ a low-life nobody! _I_ have breeding! _He_ has vermin!

"Ahhhhhhh!"

Oh, yeah, screaming just hurts my ears. I do it so much, I guess I'm used to it, but in this tunnel, it only hurts me. Trying to stay straight, my hands touch the surface I'm sliding on. Eww, gross! The floor is wet! I thought this chute was for bad nuts: they're not wet. Bad nuts... Very funny, Wonka. I look up, trying to see. Darker places in the ceiling flash by; the ends of other, smaller tunnels, joining this one. Yuck! It's the garbage from other rooms! Something that feels like sauerkraut falls on me. I wipe it from my face, but there's more in my hair, and on my shoulders. This tunnel is snaking every which way, maybe to meet up with those other tunnels. How long _is_ this tunnel, anyway? Oh look, here comes another fork, and more signs:

SHAKE IT THIS WAY, SALT!

STUFF IT, SQUIRREL KEEPER!

"Ahhhh!"

I scream a little, but thinking of the sauerkraut that might get into my mouth, my heart isn't in it. Squirrel keeper? That's all I wanted. I don't see the harm in it. A fish skeleton hits my shoulder, and makes me mad. Stuff it yourself, fruitcake! I don't have to listen to you! I don't have to listen to anyone! I get what I want, and what I want is to go this way! I point my feet, and slalom my way to the 'stuff it' fork. And just like that, I get my way! And hey, nutcase, just see if I don't get every last stinking squirrel you own when I get to the end of this chute! I'll have my Daddy shoot _all_ of your squirrely squirrels, and then he'll put them up on his wall for me, and then I'll have him shoot _you_ , you crappy candy-maker, and he'll put _you_ up on his wall for me, too, with your silly squirrels! My Daddy loves to hunt.

"Ahhhh!"

I put my arms against my sides, toes together, and smash through a clog of velvety slime that makes me think of wet lettuce. This is ruining my clothes! I open my eyes in time to see another fork. Another fork? You're boring, Wonka!

LAST CHANCE SALT: MY WAY!

LAST CHANCE SALT: YOUR WAY!

As if! It will be my way, fool! Can't you get that through your thick head? How stupid _are_ you? I can outlast you! I can outlast anyone; just ask my parents; just ask my teachers; just ask my friends! I pointed my toes and torpedoed to the my way tube, no, the your way tube, no, the my way tube which is the your way my way tube, I mean, I mean... I mean, I hate that man! He's got me sounding as goofy as he does. I mean I went the way he said I shouldn't.

"Ahhh!"

Maybe the ride's over. I'm slowing down a little. I haven't noticed any new garbage being added; fat lot of good that does me … I'm covered in it! It's definitely starting to get lighter. The sides of the tunnel are starting to reflect a glow, but it's not like the glow of the neon shining from the signs. This is like the glow of the fire in the grate, all yellow and orange and red. It's getting warmer, too. Warmer, and warmer … The light is dancing on the tunnel sides now. It's getting hot to the touch … Not burning hot, but, ow, ouch, ow … I'll make myself streamlined, so I don't touch the sides. Doesn't this tunnel ever end? Ow-ee, ouch-ee, the whole tunnel is warm now. It's more than warm, it's hot! Daddy, I want this to STOP! DADDY!

"Ahhhhhhh!"

It's flames! I see flames below! The chute is making a dive, and I'm heading right for them! Right into the middle of them! They're licking up at me like puppies' tongues, eager and awful; ruining my make-up! I'll be dumped right into them! They're going to devour me! Burn my beautiful clothes! Burn my beautiful hair! Burn my beautiful me, _me_ , ME!

"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

Who cares if my ears hurt? I'm pushing backwards with everything I've got, looking for a ledge, a seam, anything that will stop me! My hands, my arms, my legs, my feet, kicking, scrabbling … there's nothing to hold on to! I can't stop. I'm trying with all my might. My hands are scraped. My fingers are bleeding. My arms are raw. Kicking my feet isn't helping. I've lost a shoe; I've broken a nail, and I know I'm not going to make it. I want to cry. I am crying. The tears are streaking the grunge on my face. I can't face it. It's all over for me. I cry harder, thinking about how pitiful the world will be without me in it. What a loss for those I leave behind; I feel so sorry for them, and even sorrier for me.

"Ahhh!"

That wasn't a scream. That was a sigh of surrender. There's no hope now. I made my choices. The sides of the chute aren't metal anymore. I realize they haven't been for a while. They're thick glass. I can see everything. The flames are all around me, as if I were an experiment in a test tube. Colors; flames so close they're not flames anymore, but solid light; and the heat … the heat! … That's all I see, and feel. I keep thinking it will all stop soon; that my eyes will melt out of their sockets like those puppets' eyes did, but it doesn't happen. I go round and round, and down and down, like I'm stuck in some sick carousel.

This must be the incinerator, and it's on.

It's funny, but it doesn't hurt. It should hurt. It will hurt. I know it will. It will hurt the way my screaming hurts the people I scream at. It's only a matter of time. Sooner or later… I'll close my eyes. I don't have to watch this. God damn you, Willy Wonka! I know now. I SHOULD HAVE DONE IT YOUR WAY!

* * *

I've stopped. I don't know for how long; I must have passed out. I'm not moving any more. The floor is smooth. There's no more heat. It's not cold. If anything, it's pleasantly warm, like that horrid factory. Is this death? Have I died? I touch my face. I still have eyelashes, eyelids, lips. Can I open my eyes? If I can, I _should_ open my eyes. I try, and my eyes open. I look up.

A floor above me is the bottom of the incinerator that I traveled through in that glass corkscrew. The shallowing end of the corkscrew rests on this floor, with my lower legs still in it. I pull them out, and stand up. I assume the glass is specially treated, and kept me safe. I touch it. It feels strange. It dawns on me that Mr. Wonka let me make my own choices, but pulled his punch when my choices weren't the best. At my side, an Oompa-Loompa is smiling, ready to lead me out of here. I'm covered with garbage, but I'm fine. I find myself almost liking the man for the lesson he's let me live through. In front of me I see a sign, in bold, blue neon:

TOLD YA SO!

"Ah."

And I hate him again.


End file.
